


The Art of Diplomacy

by Senket



Series: SGA-7: Detectives In Space [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Pegasus Alliance forms, Earth sends a delegate to act as impartial leader. Lestrade gets the best surprise he possibly could have hoped for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Diplomacy

Greg Lestrade was tired. Exhausted. Worn to the bone. John Watson looked the same. Neither had seen Sally since they’d gotten back from MFX-87D yesterday; hopefully she was still sleeping but, no, they wouldn’t have the pleasure. Delegates were pouring into Atlantis, great roves of people representing every relatively-advanced civilization they had allied with since first coming to the Pegasus galaxy, each sending anywhere between one to twelve representatives.

As the captain of Atlantis’ strange version of military police, Lestrade was required to be there, ensure everyone that no harm nor foul would come to them; John, ever the friend, was frantically darting about getting to everyone Lestrade couldn’t, shaking hands and making nice, leading the roves of people throughout the newly-repaired (thank you McKay and Zelenka) south-east towers that held clusters of apartments. (John Sheppard, Woolsey, Teyla, Lorne- all had their hands full as well, and Rodney had been banished somewhere into the depths of scientist heaven as Radek took his place.)

It was frustrating work. They each demanded larger apartments than ‘that other group we don’t like,’ antagonizing each other from across the hall, pushed on by astoundingly petty feuds, insulting each others’ fashion, manners and strange customs.

It felt like the one and only auction party he’d ever attended with Mycroft. Mycroft had _told_ him he wouldn’t enjoy it, but he’d argued vehemently that the man was clearly just ashamed of him so, with a sigh, Mycroft had agreed. He’d been right: Greg had hated every minute except for the moment their eyes met across the room and his lover had gestured that they leave.

God, Mycroft. Nine months in and he was still thinking about the man whenever he was faced with high-level diplomacy (considerably often, seeing as municipals often asked for the help of Sherlock Holmes when things went quite strangely wrong.)

Lestrade shook himself out before diving back into the fray. He didn’t have time to twist himself back into that place, not now. Especially not when he was so tired and his guard was down.

The varying time zones involved kept the influx of people mostly constant until almost two in the morning, when the command staff all stumbled into the meeting room, each looking battle-weary despite the lack of actual battle. (John Watson had hurried off to bed, looking mercifully happy that he wasn’t required to stay; Greg noticed he was limping.)

“What is even going on?” Lestrade asked with a heavy groan, forehead against the arms he had crossed over the table.

Woolsey, who looked contrite, harried and almost terrified, made a strange noise a little like a squeak. “We’re preparing for the formation of a major alliance; of course every major civilization in the Pegasus galaxy would like to be involved.”

“Sure,” John Sheppard grumbled, slumped bonelessly in his seat. “But why here?”

Rodney, who had reappeared for the meeting, was glancing about them with a raised eyebrow- he opened his mouth but Sheppard shot him a filthy look. Rodney snapped his mouth shut, glaring back. He looked irritably awake and at ease (in-so-far as Rodney ever looked at ease, anyway,) and they all currently disliked him far more than they should for that.

“Atlantis, as a primary figure in most of their mythologies, is a perfect rallying point for this Alliance. It’s what Doctor Weir had intended when you first arrived, Colonel Sheppard. Or at least she had hoped for it. I think.” He trailed off, frowning. “Oh, besides!” Woolsey started again, tapping his fingers nervously against the table. “They wanted an impartial party to run the Alliance, and the easiest way to bring one in was to send someone new to the Pegasus galaxy.”

“Seems unlikely,” Rodney snorted- rolled his eyes when John glared at him. “They’ll complain no matter who gets chosen.”

“Probable,” Woolsey agreed, shrugging. “Despite that, the IOA has worked together to approve a delegate suited to the task- and an incredible task it will be, I assure you all. Therefore, I’d like all of you to be ready to greet him tomorrow. He’ll arrive at nine-thirty. Try to be on your best behaviour, would you?” He asked, shooting a pleading look at John Sheppard and Rodney McKay. The first grinned and the second whined. Teyla smiled fondly.

Greg groaned. That gave them, what- seven hours to sleep? He felt like he needed fifty.

\-----------

Nine twenty-seven had Greg sprinting across the mess with a muffin half-crammed in his mouth, running clear across every area, pausing only in the lift to pant before tearing into the gate room. He came to a skidding halt and nearly knocked into Woolsey.

The other man looked nervous, agitatedly straightening his tie and suit, slicking his thinning hair back. Sheppard was lazily leaning over a control panel, hair wet from a shower and black button-up clinging to his shoulders. Rodney and Richard both seemed to be shooting him anxious glances, albeit for two completely different reasons.

None of them looked particularly any better than usual, Rodney in, though clear of coffee or sauce stains, science blues, Sheppard in his ‘casual military.’ Greg didn’t own anything formal in the first place. Teyla looked radiant as always, and though her shirt actually seemed to be covering the entirety of her stomach, she did have a three-year-old Torren babbling against her neck, so... not particularly professional either.

The Stargate whooshed to life at precisely nine-thirty. After a moment’s pause, a man walked through. He was alone, dark hair slicked back, surprisingly tall. He had a somewhat wiry frame, warm brown eyes and long hands. His three-piece suit was impeccable, charcoal grey and well-ironed, no doubt woollen and expensive. He wore a silky green tie that was precisely Greg’s favourite shade. Beside a pair of particularly shiny shoes, a worn-looking umbrella point tapped against the ground.

Greg sat heavily, feeling as though all the air had gone out of the world. Everything hurt and everything felt astoundingly _wonderful_ all at once and he couldn’t hear but for the whoosh in his ears, couldn’t breathe but for the improbable speed his heart had taken up, beating in his throat.

He might have thought he was dreaming but for the look on the man’s face when their eyes met- stressed, wary, subdued, _uncertain._ Exposed. A touch afraid, even.

‘ _God, Mycroft,’_ he thought shakily, pressing his fingers against his lips. The last time they’d seen each other he hadn’t had any words left. Now he had a thousand, all clamouring in his head, crashing against each other.

He wanted to tell him everything, the things he’d seen, the things he’d learned, the things he’d done and above else that heartbreak buried somewhere deep in his chest that said the same thing over and over again.

I missed you. I missed you. I missed you.

\-----------

Life got in the way. Mycroft was _important_ , openly now. Head of the Pegasus Alliance, Christ, and Sherlock had thought British Government had been bad. Sherlock, who had been sulking all day while John laughingly reassured him that Mycroft would be too busy to stop their adventures and who, Lestrade finally realized, had actually been sulking about this since _yesterday_ and he’d thought they’d been friends after all this time couldn’t Sherlock have _warned_ him?

But the first Alliance meeting that Atlantis had been preparing for a month started at ten and lasted far too long, long enough that Lestrade was half-dozing standing up against the wall despite having had three cups of coffee in the last hour.

Sally stood next to him, their arms pressed together shoulder to elbow, and kept her sharp eyes on the room.

It was her sudden departure that woke him. He blinked blearily, looking about the room, noting that everyone seemed to be vanishing into the hallway.

Everyone except for a man in a very sharp Italian suit, looking completely unruffled but for the fact that his tie had tugged down low enough to reveal the top button in his pressed linen shirt.

“Gregory.”

His gaze drifted up until he met the other man’s dark eyes, cocking his head. “Mycroft,” he greeted back, palms humid where he pressed them into his pockets.

An awkward pause. God, nine months. Mycroft looked away, instead watching the dented tip of his umbrella as he shifted his weight against it. He squared his shoulders, glanced up again.

Greg could see how drained he was- not the exhaustion of a man after a long day, but of a man after a long month, a long year. (Saw it in the mirror at night, aching against the deep, bleeding void in the depth of his chest. Wondered, sometimes, in the silence, if he’d made the wrong choice despite knowing that he hadn’t, that Pegasus was more home than London, where the monsters were really monsters, where people understood his strange world instead of hating him because of the badge in his wallet.)

“Gregory. Greg. I-“ Mycroft drew in a breath. Despite his skills at mincing words and saying just what people wanted to hear, Mycroft was astoundingly bad at speaking honestly. He was particularly terrible at articulating his feelings, something Greg had often mocked him for, describing it as ‘spectacularly old-fashioned English.’ Mycroft used to argue that there was nothing old-fashioned about it at all and Greg would always laugh and kiss him, despite the fact that Mycroft had been in the middle of a very awkward monologue about how the detective inspector was quite important to him. Greg never needed words then, so he wasn’t sure why Mycroft was trying again now.

“What I did was foolish, I- I wanted to come with you but I didn’t have a place here, I- Sherlock often told me that I was too afraid of the unknown. A foolish notion, I thought, since I did not consider anything particularly unknown, but... As far as it may pain me to say I believe he was right, and-”

“Mycroft, stop.” Greg fought down a smile. God, Mycroft was _bad_ at this, but here he was, showing weakness, falling over himself to make things right, make things better maybe, and Greg wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything so beautiful in his whole bloody life.

“I didn’t think it would be so bad. After all I spent years on my own but I missed you, I missed you every day, and I worried so. Worried that you could die any day, and when I started arranging for the Alliance I started to worry that someone else had realized how absolutely _perfect_ you are and- oh dear, I appear to be rambling- but—“

“Mycroft, _stop_.” An ice-melting smile had dawned across Greg’s face, the policeman running his fingers through Mycroft dark hair, pressing against his scalp.

The other man tumbled into silence, staring back uncertainly.

“Let’s not make this difficult,” he sighed, tracing the lines of Mycroft’s skull until his arms looped around the man’s neck. “I don’t know if anyone noticed whether or not I’m apparently perfect, but if they had I certainly didn’t notice them. You’re a fool sometimes but I missed you, too.” His voice was warm, low and sleepy. He wound himself closer. Neither man closed his eyes when they kissed- at least not at first, a warm chaste press of mouths.

“I have to say,” Greg continued, hushed, “I really like the way you do things. We’ll never be rid of you, now.”

“I certainly hope not,” Mycroft answered back, soft and awed, tracing the lines of Greg’s cheek and jaw with long fingers.

They kissed again, deep, long and languid.

Mycroft’s umbrella clattered to the floor.

_ \----------- _

_ “Mycroft Holmes speaking. In an effort to acquaint myself more thoroughly with Atlantis, I’ll be taking the day with Officer Lestrade; at your convenience, of course, Woolsey.” _

Richard glanced around the meeting room, clearing his throat awkwardly. Sheppard looked far too amused, exchanging obvious glances with Rodney McKay. John Watson hurried in to replace the senior officer, tapping on his earpiece.

“Is that what they call it these days?”

_ “It’s far too early in the morning for this,” _ Anderson‘s voice crackled across the room.

Sherlock’s quickly joined in the chorus. “ _That’s disgusting. I’m disgusted. Any time is a bad time. And Anderson, please remove your hands from Donovan while your radio is functioning. And Mycroft-_ “ but he cut off with a discomforted groan, clearly not wanting to articulate anything that might connect his elder brother to sex.

Rodney burst into laughter, Teyla’s eyes crinkling fondly.

The radio crackled to life again.

_ “Lestrade here. The next person to utter a word about my personal life over any frequency gets to be primary security detail on McKay’s personal lab for the next week. I have the power.” _

The radio stilled, abrupt silence in the control room. Furtive glances were exchanged. Nobody looked at Rodney except Radek who, instead, looked thoroughly amused.

“Oh, haha,” Rodney grumbled, crossing his arms stubbornly and sinking into his seat. “You’re all very funny.”

John Sheppard cracked a smile, leaning over to clap Rodney on the shoulder. “Tough luck, buddy.”

Rodney socked him in the arm. Sheppard complained but didn’t try to hide the mirth gleaming in his eyes.  



End file.
